Friday, 1 January 2010

Happy New Year.

Somewhere, somehow, through that infinitesimal and infinite
distance between you and you and me

there is...

There is.

Suddenly I fail to perceive that there is a difference-
That what was is now not, and that
the new year or what temporal novelty they call this:
I know not. All I know is
that there is no hope
and only hope
that there is no pain
but only pain
there is no change
but then again
There is only change.

And I know that this soul is a wretched gift.
And I know that this body is my only reality.
I dig my nails hard into my flesh. There is a slow trickle
of fickle blood. Soon it shall congeal. The sudden sharp burst of pain
Fading pain, now so real
now so mine-oh you will never know
what it feels like.

Called love.


AUROBOROS banerjee said...

unhappy/shokto poem for 'happy new year...'(trademark)?

Baudolino said...
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Baudolino said...

There are things which cannot be articulated in terms of hope, ahona. There are junctures at which you cannot afford to expect; for to expect is to despair and to despair is to surrender everything rational within you. One can only wait for things to happen. Things unknown. Things that hurt. Like betrayal or torture. The only consolation is a feeling that you are aware of and that refuses to go away. Truth or illusion. Its object real or unreal.

A feeling called love.

Anik Biswas said...
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